


Downfall

by arrhythmic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrhythmic/pseuds/arrhythmic
Summary: She was not Alayne anymore. Not with her hair Tully red, her tresses running across the wolf sewn on her chest. Pity. He had hoped to pin a mockingbird there someday. The chance of that now, he surmised, was slim to none. After all, he was on his knees with her sister’s dagger pointed at his neck.





	Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble based on the Season 7 finale. I had chunks of this written long before in preparation for this moment. It wasn't the ending I was secretly hoping for, but it was the ending I expected, and I am satisfied. It helps that Aidan Gillen was even more brilliant than usual. Will be back to working on my AU fics soon after this while listening to the Chaos Is A Ladder soundtrack on repeat!

_“She’s just like her mother. She’ll never love you.”_

Occasionally, Lysa’s words would surface in Petyr's thoughts, though he generally opted to dismiss them.

 _Wrong_ , he had thought in that moment in the snow, as he took her face in his hands. Sansa was not just like her mother. She was far more beautiful than Cat had ever been.

 _Wrong,_ he had thought again at the sight of her tears, as the Lords of the Vale fretted about how to console her. She was far more cunning than her straight-shooting mother. Cat’s wits had dulled under the influence of the Stark men, no doubt. He refused to let Sansa’s mind similarly go to waste in their care.

And as for her loving him—well, perhaps Lysa could be wrong about that too, couldn't she, if he played his cards right?

That first night Sansa arrived in Winterfell, and she was told she was to marry the Bolton boy, she crept into Petyr's room because she had been so alone. His kiss in the crypt had not been enough to comfort her, he mused. She was still so very frightened.

So he taught her how to kiss, taught her how it felt to be caressed, glided his fingers across her breasts as she shivered. She was so afraid that she said nothing but merely obeyed, not even when he guided her mouth to his shaft, when he plunged his fingers into her. She came with a cry, still holding him in her cheek. The sensation of her, wet and quivering, tightening around his finger brought him to his own climax, and he released himself on her tongue.

He let her sleep by his side that night, breaking one of his own rules. He wanted to play his fatherly role; to hold her and stroke her dark hair, to tell her he was proud of her for being so good, so brave. But she refused his embrace, curling herself up away from him. The corner of his lip still twitched at the memory in amusement. She had been so lonely that she had spread her legs for him, just so he would toss her a morsel of affection. Yet, in the aftermath, she still kept tight her grasp on the sliver of pride she had left.

But memories were just that. She was not Alayne anymore. Not with her hair Tully red, her tresses running across the wolf sewn on her chest. Pity. He had hoped to pin a mockingbird there someday. The chance of that now, he surmised, was slim to none. After all, he was on his knees with her sister’s dagger pointed at his neck.

_“She’ll never love you.”_

Perhaps Lysa had not been entirely mistaken. Perhaps his deepest fear had come true—the one he buried within him, that he suppressed every night as he peeled off his tunic and caught a glimpse of his own torso in the mirror.

When he tried to grasp someone’s motivations, he liked to assume the worst. He crunched the possibilities in his head as he bided his time in Winterfell—they were not in his favor. Yet, he spent one night there, and then the next, and then another. He waited for her to throw him a glance, to lend him her ear, to seek his guidance, all the while knowing that she could have his head on a stick if she so wished. For her alone, he made an exception; for her alone, he gambled his life on the chance that _she may have wanted him as he wanted her_.

But life is not a song, is it?

“I loved you. More than anyone.”

It didn't matter that she didn't love him.

He should have taken her away then, that night, when she found her own way to his bed. Away from Winterfell, that wretched place, so dark and so cold. To hell with power, to revenge. To hell with everything; she could have been his, and he could have been happy. He was his own downfall this time.

He bled out in the Great Hall, slowly. No one moved a muscle to help him. But in his last moments, he watched her, watching him. She did not look away, not even for a moment, but he could see that, like his, her eyes were wet.

At that, he smiled, just a little. Lysa had been wrong after all.


End file.
